“No,” I said.And I don’t really care, I thought.
“Tribe Called Quest. Beastie Boys. The Roots,” he listed.
“Good for you,” I said.
“That’srealold-school hip hop. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan of Biggie as much as the next guy, but all that radio crap is just so played out.”
“Okay,” I said, wishing the conversation would end.
“I mean, really. Does Justin Timberlake even know what he’ssaying? ‘I’m bringing sexy back—yeah!’” he sang. Yes,sang. Out loud. On theschool bus. Inhighschool. I contemplated launching myself out of the locked window onto the moving pavement below.
“Sshhh,” I implored him.
“What?” he asked. “I’m serious! What does that mean—‘bringing sexy back’? Like, where did it go? Does Justin Timberlake, with his unnaturally high-pitched voice, think that sounding like the human equivalent of Mickey Mouse is the key to delivering ‘sexy’ to the masses?”
“Oh my God,” I said. “Can you please lower your voice?” My cheeks were turning fire-engine red.
“Just tell me what it means, and I’ll drop it,” he replied, grinning. It was obvious that he was getting off on embarrassing me.
“I think it just means that people think he’s sexy, and he’s calling himself out as a sexy singer of his generation—like, maybe the equivalent of Britney Spears during her ‘I’m a Slave 4 U’ period. Okay? Can we stop now?”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “I guess. Though it’s far from surprising that you would bring up Britney Spears.”
Ihatedthat conversation, but if we’re being genuinely honest, the reason I remember it with such vivid detail is because it made me laugh so hard on the inside.
Ronald started sitting next to me after that. I got on the bus a few stops before him, but Maya got on after him, so she ended up sitting across from us, in his old seat. The first time it happened, she shot me a look that was code for, “Are you okay? Do you need rescue?” and I shrugged uncomfortably, but as time went on, we both got used to it.
This went on for about six months. Ronald would—in his veryRonaldway—share his views and beliefs (and occasionally, his breakfast) with me, and I would listen and laugh at his absurdity. Maya would chime in if she felt like it, and the three of us became something of a group of bus buddies. Since Ronald was a sophomore, we never had classes together, but we’d say hello if we passed each other in the hallway.
Colin, meanwhile, was a thing of the past, as he had cycled through Alexis Yacolino and about a half dozen other equally gorgeous girls by that time, and my secret romantic overtures were also history. I still gazed at him longingly in biology and on the soccer field, but I was beginning to understand my place on the sociological cafeteria map. Cindy Lee and Maya—those were my people. And Ronald.
I never would have thought anything of my friendship with him had it not been for a New Year’s Eve party at Maya’s house. A small group of neighborhood kids who went to junior high were invited, along with Ronald, since he was our only “older” friend. We played tame versions of games like Truth or Dare while we crunched on Cheez Doodles and sour cream and onion–flavored potato chips and drank Fanta out of paper cups. Once Maya’s parents announced they were going to turn in for the night, she turned the lights down and took the empty Fanta bottle and placed it on the floor in the center of the living room.
“Spin the Bottle!” She giggled, gathering everyone around to sit on the carpet in a circle, in a formation reminiscent of our kindergarten games of Duck, Duck, Goose and Hot Potato.
As the hostess, Maya spun first. She landed on Ronald. He grinned, revealing braces dotted with orange cheese powder, and she planted a juicy, wet kiss on him.
All of a sudden, I felt something. None of the feelings I expected bubbled up inside me: not disgust, repulsion, or even pity for my friend.
I wasjealous.
It took me several days to work through the complicated, hormonal, teenage emotions I was feeling. I gave Ronald the cold shoulder for no good reason. He didn’t understand why I was being such a bitch. He couldn’t leave well enough alone either, and one cold January day he must have left his house at the ass crack of dawn because he showed up at my bus stop.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Why are you being like this to me? What did I do to you?”
“Nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine,” I said. I couldn’t believe he walked the four bus stops in the dead of winter to have this conversation with me on a street corner so early in the morning.
“You’re not fine. Just tell me what I did.”
“You didn’tdoanything!” I insisted.
“Then why do you have such an attitude with me?”
“I don’t have an attitude!”
